


Marble Crumbles At Your Touch

by smallprotector



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Death, Food, M/M, Suicidal Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 16:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11925234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallprotector/pseuds/smallprotector
Summary: Four times Enjolras denied himself something and one time he permitted it.





	Marble Crumbles At Your Touch

It was late on a Thursday evening. Enjolras and his lieutenants had poured over maps for hours and had determined strategic points to barricade until one by one they made their way from the backroom of the Musain into the café itself, Enjolras leaving only when Combeferre nudged his shoulder and nodded at the doorway. 

“Thank you, my friend. I was rather lost in though.”

And with that Enjolras stood, making his way to the main room of the café, Combeferre a steady presence at his side as he took his place in the back corner where he could observe everyone else. Feuilly was chatting with Bahorel, both of them relaxed and smiling at each other. Marius was surrounded by Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire, who seemed to be amusing themselves at the former’s expense- but at least Marius was smiling too, even though his face looked like it was stained by a blush. And there was Jehan in the other corner, his notebook in front of him and Courfeyrac distracting him from writing anything in it.

Enjolras sat down next to Jehan, stealing glimpses at his notebook as he wrote the tasks he’d assign the others tomorrow. He noted the lines in different languages and sketches of flowers in corners and margins. 

It was so beautiful. 

He remembered all at once how he used to scribble little poems on the edges of his pages, furtive things about the bird he had seen the day before or the flowers blooming outside. He remembered the crude pictures he’d drawn, his hand still small and unsure as he added whiskers to his version of the family’s mouser, how he’d worked to make the fur the right colour- before the scrap he’d been drawing on had been snatched from him, the flushed face of his tutor looming above him as he looked up to see what he’d spent so much time on being ripped up. 

At that he moved his head, tearing his gaze away from what he knew he could never have. He had to be focused, after all. 

 

As soon as Enjolras entered Courfeyrac’s rooms he could smell the jam. The scent was sweet and heady, making Enjolras wish for a desperate moment he could be a boy again, gathering blackberries for hours on end as the sun shone upon him, his hands and mouth stained by the juices of the berries that never made it into his basket, his arms scratched by the brambles, ignoring his responsibilities for the day and enjoying the time wandering to find the bushes that yielded such perfect creations. He remembered barging into the kitchen with his basket and watching in awe as his bounty was reduced to a thick liquid that spat and hissed at anyone who dared approach it. He remembered how the scullery maid would give him a crust of bread and how he’d scoop out the leftover sticky syrup in the pot with it, not caring that it was still far too hot to eat, ignoring the burning of his mouth for more of that perfect sweetness. He remembered treasuring the resulting jam that he might find on his bread at breakfast, or on his porridge- how it could cheer him up in the dead of winter when the weather made him moody, how he savoured every bite. 

But that was in the past, he reminded himself with a small shake. Now he had more important things to focus on. As he steeled himself, Courfeyrac rushed to greet him, babbling excitedly.

“You’re here! How wonderful! I was just stewing some blackberries because Marius accidentally bought a few basketfuls from some girl down by the market- I’m not sure how he did it, but he came to me quite uncertain what to do with them. And I remembered how my grandma would make preserves and well I do have a fireplace of my own and sugar left over from that affair with the horses that ended so badly, so I figured I might as well try it.” 

As Courfeyrac spoke, Enjolras was led into the sitting room, where Marius was reading some texts that didn’t, on closer inspection, even seem to be French. Half listening to Courfeyrac, Enjolras look at the table to see if he could spy the map that Courfeyrac said he’d acquire as soon as possible, but only saw more of the pages with words in some foreign language covered in notes and scribbles- and was that a dictionary? 

“Courfeyrac, were you able to get that map we needed?”

“Ah no, not yet, I was planning on doing that tomorrow when I‘ll be in that part of Paris for a lecture- I rather think it’s less suspicious that way. But enough of those matters, try some of this jam! I had a drop on bread earlier and it was heaven!”

Enjolras felt his mouth water at the sight of the bread covered with the shiny dark purple jam he knew would be sweet as nothing else he’d eaten in a long while. But even as he wanted nothing more than to eat it, he knew it would be giving in to weakness. He couldn’t let himself be distracted from the revolution. He’d already indulged in far too much nostalgia today- next he’d decide to give up the cause and retire to a little country estate! And that wouldn’t do at all. 

“No thank you Courfeyrac, I don’t have a taste for the stuff. Now please excuse me, but I must be attending to other matters. I’ll show myself out. Goodbye Marius, Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras hurried to the door, trying to breath shallowly and hoping his stomach would not betray him by rumbling where his comrades could hear him. He didn’t see Courfeyrac’s small pout or the way Marius patted his shoulder in absent-minded consolation. 

 

Enjolras’ hair was getting too long. He preferred it kept to a manageable length, and one that would not seem so out of fashion as to make him too easily identified from behind. The last few times he’s asked Courfeyrac to cut it after it fell into his eyes too many times during speeches and made him look foolish. One memorable time he’d forgotten to get it cut until a part of it had gotten singed. He would really rather avoid that this time. 

But as he recalled the last times he’d had someone cut it he couldn’t help but question whether it had really been necessary. Though his hair was rather itchy on his neck, it wasn’t impeding him from planning the revolution to come. For a second he let himself imagine going to one of his lieutenants, bashfully asking Courfeyrac or Combeferre to cut it short enough he could forget about it for the next few months. He imagined hands carefully brushing it and laying it on his shoulders. He could let his eyes close, and not worry about the future for just a little- but no. He could not. He had to remember that he had a higher purpose, that anything that distracted him from it was not to be indulged. He was above such things. 

He bound his hair back. It would stop growing soon enough anyway.

 

“Anything. I’ll black your boots.”

At those words, heat rushed to Enjolras’ cheeks. He knew it was a jest, that Grantaire was mocking him and yet… He was not as innocent as the others assumed he was. He knew what those words meant. And the thought! Till now Enjolras had never been tempted by such base desire but this- he could imagine Grantaire kneeling, looking up at him with those eyes and reaching out with those fingers, so deft and nimble. For a second he wanted something he’d never let himself want before. He wanted nothing more than to feel those fingers, those lips. 

No. He could not entertain such thoughts. He was working. He had to find someone to talk to the men at Richefeu’s. Grantaire continued to argue with him, trying to convince him he could do it. After a bit of this, Enjolras wondered if perhaps Grantaire could do it. If he showed the passion he had just displayed, it could work. 

"Grantaire," he said, hoping as he spoke he would not regret this. "I consent to try you. You shall go to the Barriere du Maine."

 

Enjolras had lost everything. He had imagined this before, imagined it as a triumphant moment, one where he made the ultimate sacrifice. But here he stood, and there was nothing triumphant about this. He’d seen his friends fall. He’d killed people. This would be a release from the pain of survival, but there was nothing selfless or good about it. The soldiers that were to become his executioners had gone so far as to offer him a blindfold. In that moment, he’d hated them more than he had ever hated anyone else. How dare they pretend to be decent. How dare the murderers of his friends dress up their monstrous acts with the trappings of honour and duty. How dare they stay so blind to the people that were crying out for help and then act as though the cared in the slightest about anyone but themselves. 

Perhaps humanity wasn’t worth saving at all. Perhaps this had all been for nothing.

“Long live the Republic! I’m one of them!” As he heard those words he could have wept. How could he have thought such horrible things about humanity? For here was a reminder of his faith. Grantaire seemed to shine with divine grace as he crossed the room toward Enjolras, and Enjolras could do nothing but gaze in awe.

“Do you permit it?”

And at those words, Enjolras smiled. He did. He could finally permit Grantaire- permit himself- this. He reached out, and found Grantaire’s hand was as warm and soft as he had ever dared dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are very appriciated! I'm on tumblr as wanttodrawmothsfrommemory, come say hi :D Feel free to suggest anything you'd like to see :D
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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